The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Page 10

  “It is the way with men such as Inspector Abberline, Watson,” Holmes had explained, “they will run head-first into every dead-end before accepting that someone else may know how to navigate the labyrinth. Much time and energy could be saved if my superiors were not inhibited in such a way, but alas, eventually the spark of desperation brings enlightenment.”

  It is one of the few occasions that Holmes’s explanation did not satisfy my ill feeling. For a man of stout heart, the capturing of such a monster must be held as the first priority, not the identity of the supposed hero. Abberline might have been a proud man, but I could not fathom the notion that he could place his own reputation above the life of even those most helpless of women. Such a demonstration suggested a most sinister motive on behalf of the Inspector: and when one considered his access to high-grade police intelligence, accompanied with his excellent knowledge of the Whitechapel area, I could not help but be disturbed by his hypothetical position of both hunter and hunted.

  Holmes, of course, remained convinced as to the guilt of Professor Moriarty, a theory which I came to accept; but with Moriarty consumed by Reichenbach, and Moran provided with an alibi, old feelings of foreboding had been resurrected along with the demonic rise of Jack the Ripper. Holmes had predicted to Abberline when the Ripper would cease to be active, and he was correct; but could it be that he had unwittingly told the Ripper himself when his time was up? Pride, if not a decisively more terrible motive, had previously prevented Abberline from consulting Sherlock Holmes; now at least, he could afford no pretences, and Holmes would be involved from the start.

  “We shall really have to apologise to Mrs Hudson for all of today’s intrusions upon her. Ah, Lestrade, Inspector Abberline, to what do we owe such an untimely visit?” said Holmes, standing by the window as the two Inspectors came bustling loudly and unannounced through the door.

  Inspector Abberline stood at a commanding six feet, his features sharp and intuitive: his almost entirely white hair seemed to be made of a single piece, originating from the scalp and encompassing his bushy whiskers before completing the circular effect in the form of a large moustache. He wore a conservative tweed suit with accompanying travellers coat and a black bowler hat. His demeanour was curt and irritable.

  “Now is not the time for your snide remarks, Mr Holmes,” he barked, striding purposefully into the centre of the room. “A man of your intellect will undoubtedly be fully aware why Lestrade and myself have come to you at such an hour, and I assure you it is not to be on the end of your condescension! It is an unpleasant business, gentlemen, as I am sure you remember. But it may intrigue you most of all, Mr Holmes, to learn that we have hit a bit of an unusual snag. The victim is, I am told, undoubtedly one of the Ripper’s, but according to our men, it has not followed the previous progression.”

  “Indeed you do intrigue me, Inspector. Pray, how does the victim differ from the previous?”

  “As to that I cannot say, Mr Holmes, we have not seen the body yet. I received this message from Constable Warrington:

  ‘A girl has been murdered. Evidence suggests she is a victim of Jack the Ripper, though not conclusive. The body was found in the entrance to Deal Street Church; Dr Phillips is on his way; bring Sherlock Holmes.’”

  “But how an earth does he know of Holmes’ return?” I enquired.

  “That was my doing, Dr Watson,” Lestrade replied. “I needed a few men for our earlier work. Warrington was eager to come, and I to have him with me, but H. Division claimed they needed him more urgently in Whitechapel.”

  “Well, at least he has demonstrated sound judgment and sought my consultation from the off,” said Holmes, replacing his dressing gown with a travelling coat. “An astute fellow, I am sure.”

  “Now is not the time for your comments, Mr Holmes, no matter how much truth they may or may not contain,” Abberline retorted bitterly.

  “Our transport is downstairs, gentlemen,” said Lestrade, who had wisely chosen to remain neutral in the verbal sparring between his two superiors. “Doctor, if you wish to remain behind and not be party to this terrible ordeal, we will of course understand.”

  “If this demon has indeed returned, there are few men more than I who wish to see him banished back into the depths of hell,” I replied.

  “Very well, I did not believe you would remain on the backbenches for this one.”

  “I was unaware we were searching for Jack the Ripper in a library?” sneered Inspector Abberline, as Holmes collected a rather fine volume from one of the shelves. The book he held was one I had seen on several occasions: it was a quarto volume bound in deep burgundy Morocco with a large gilded ‘M’ emblazed upon the front cover. The paper was of high quality, and it was the only item in Holmes’s chronicles that he had scribed himself: though sublime in detail, the others were closer in resemblance to scrap books. “What the devil is that anyway?”

  “This, Abberline, is my personal little tribute to the late Professor James Moriarty,” said Holmes.

  “You may have been right about this Professor of yours while he still breathed among us, Mr Holmes,” said Abberline, “but I cannot entertain any superstitious nonsense that you believe him to have returned from beyond the grave.”

  “Professor Moriarty was an exceptional criminal with an intellect of the first order, Inspector, but not even he is capable of resurrection. We are bringing the volume to refresh our memories of Jack the Ripper’s previous activities. In this instance, it is the crime, not the man, in which we are interested.”

  “So you can be mistaken after all,” retorted Abberline.

  “On occasion, though if you should ask me to refrain from unhelpful comments, I must really ask for you to grant me the same courtesy. Now come, gentlemen, we have not a moment to spare; we shall re-familiarise ourselves with this most disturbing of cases upon the way.”

  A bitter chill remained in the still night air as we entered the police carriage. Although drops had yet to fall, it seemed rain was not too distant, a fact which Holmes made quite clear to our driver. Our destination was a church upon Hanbury Street, situated upon the corner of Deal Street and King Edward Street. It is Holmes’s usual custom under such circumstances to remain in a silent and meditative concentration, and though my mind was swimming with curiosity, I learnt long ago not to disturb him in such a state. Tonight though, he was insistent upon reliving that most disturbing of periods, and it was a task which I performed with the utmost reluctance.

  “We are all familiar with the details. Do we have to go over them again?” said Lestrade.

  “It is quite necessary, Lestrade, for we need our minds refreshed of all the minutiae; we must ensure we are aware of the repetition of any singularity or anomaly, otherwise our knowledge would be insufficient to tackle the case. If we were to be guilty of missing such a detail through our own idleness or reluctance to perform our duties, we should never have taken up a profession in detection.”

  “He’s right, Lestrade,” said Abberline, staring intently at Holmes.

  “Please, Watson, I believe if you turn to page eighty, you will find the beginning to this most distasteful of chapters,” said Holmes, handing me his file upon the late Professor Moriarty.

  “Friday, August thirty-first 1888, the body of Mary Anne (Polly) Nichols was found at three-forty in the morning.”

  “Polly Nichols?” interjected Abberline. “Holmes told you to start from the beginning, Dr Watson; you have missed out the case of Martha Tabram.”

  “I am afraid I do not concur with your conclusions regarding Miss Tabram, Inspector,” said Holmes.

  “Do not concur? She was stabbed thirty-nine times, man!”

  “Stabbed, Inspector, not ripped. Her throat was not cut, her carotid arteries left un-severed and her abdomen certainly not mutilated. Tragic and disturbing though her murder may have been, we shall not be accounting for
her circumstances in our investigation. Should you wish to pursue such an end, you are of, course, at liberty; but now, Watson, I believe we last heard Miss Nichols was discovered at three-forty.”

  “The body was discovered in the entrance to a stable yard,” I continued, “found upon the northern end of Bucks-Row, heading toward Bakers-Row. She was discovered by a cabbie, Mr Charles Cross, of twenty-two Doveton Street, Cambridge Heath Road, Bethnal Green. Nichols was no more than five feet and three inches; she had greying dark hair and a dark complexion. She was believed to be around forty-two years of age. Her clothing contained no features of interest, but on her person she carried a comb, a piece of looking-glass and a white pocket-handkerchief. There was no sign of a struggle. But two bruises were found on the right lower jaw and also the left cheek. Her throat had been slit twice, from left to right. The weapon was a moderately sharp, long-bladed knife. The windpipe, gullet and spinal cord had been severed.”

  “Honestly, tonight is going to be disturbing enough! I have no problem recalling such details, and have been hard pressed trying to forget them!” cried Lestrade.

  “Lestrade, if you cannot bear to hear what you have already seen, then perhaps you should not witness that which awaits us,” replied Holmes coldly, as Lestrade shrank back into his seat, a mutinous look across his brow.

  “Further incisions were made to the abdomen,” I continued, “notable for their depth and jagged nature. The genitalia suffered two small stab wounds. The victim died where she was found. The murderer had demonstrated anatomical knowledge.”

  “With haste, driver,” demanded Holmes. “Please Watson, continue your narrative.”

  “Annie Chapman, alias ‘Dark Annie’, was found murdered on Saturday the eighth of September, at six o’clock. She was discovered three or four hundred yards from her dwellings, in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street, Spitalfields, by John Davis. She was five feet tall and stoutly built, with dark brown hair and blue eyes. She was forty-seven years of age. Near the victim lay a piece of coarse muslin, a small tooth-comb and a pocket-comb in a paper case. There was no sign of a struggle. Miss Chapman’s throat had been deeply cut, from left to right. Found above her right shoulder were her small intestines and a flap of abdomen, another section of which was placed by her left shoulder. Her skirt had been raised. Part of the belly, the womb and upper genitalia had been removed and were reported missing. Evidence suggested the murder took place in the courtyard, where a box of nails, a piece of flat steel and a saturated leather apron were also found. This discovery was attributed to the already suspected ‘leather apron’, real name Jack Pizer, a known prostitute abuser. No further or conclusive evidence could be brought against this unsavoury character.”

  “If Dr Phillips’ testimony is included in that file, Dr Watson, I should like to hear it,” injected Abberline.

  “Dr Phillips later gave evidence,” said I, flicking through the pages, “that the weapon in question was a small amputating knife: narrow, sharp, and thin, around six to eight inches in length. He stated that ‘no unskilled man could have carried out these operations. I myself could not have performed all the injuries, even without a struggle, in under quarter of an hour’”

  “Make a note for me to strike that from the account, Watson,” said Holmes. “Why I thought Dr Phillips’ incompetence in comparison to Jack the Ripper was noteworthy, I cannot recall.”

  “Dr Phillips has been a police surgeon for over thirty years, Mr Holmes. His opinion is held in the highest regard, and to make such a comment in comparison to this fiend is borderline slander!” cried Abberline.

  “I do not question Dr Phillips’ ability or integrity Inspector Abberline, but is it really of surprise that Jack the Ripper possesses greater skill? So far he has committed these atrocities, despite being pursued by the police, myself and Watson, as well as the having the entire public upon the lookout for him: yet he still roams free, lurking in the shadows. That he is more accomplished than Dr Phillips is therefore of no surprise at all, Inspector Abberline, and I implore you not to waste anymore of our time with the pointless defence of one your colleagues. Now, so long as you have no more trivial remarks, please allow Watson to continue.”

  “The night of the double murder,” said I, noting the look of pure fury upon the face of Inspector Abberline, “Sunday the thirtieth of September, the body of Elizabeth Stride was discovered in Dutfield’s Yard, Berner Street. She was discovered by Louis Diemshutz, the steward of the International Working Men’s Educational Club. Miss Stride was five feet and five inches tall: she had a pale complexion, dark brown hair and light grey eyes. She was forty-five years of age. In her left hand she carried a packet of cachous. She was discovered lying facedown; her throat deeply cut from left to right. Some authorities wished to dismiss this victim as the Ripper, but the technique used to cut the throat, as well as the body still being warm upon discovery, suggests she would have been subjected to mutilation and disembowelment had the Ripper not been interrupted. This theory is compounded by the discovery of Catherine ‘Kate’ Eddowes, later that same evening at a-quarter-to-two in Mitre Square: notable as the singular ‘respectable’ scene. Miss Eddowes was five feet tall, with dark auburn hair and hazel eyes. She was forty-six years of age. Upon her person were a small metal button, a common metal thimble and a mustard tin containing two pawn-tickets. There was no evidence of a struggle. Miss Eddowes was found upon her back, her clothes drawn up to the abdomen. Her throat was cut from left to right. Her face greatly disfigured. The majority of her intestines were placed over her right shoulder, a piece of which, approximately two feet in length, was detached and placed between the body and the left arm. The Ripper fled with Miss Eddowes’s left kidney and womb. The execution showed less evidence of medical expertise than previous crimes, though I believe this to have been intentional.”

  I paused in my narrative to contemplate the facts so far. None of the victims showed any sign of a struggle; although considering their occupation and that they were most likely to have been ambushed, this is hardly of surprise. It is also a safe assumption that Holmes would have made note of every detail that he believed to be of importance; the curious items found upon the bodies were therefore worthy of his attention, although I could not deduce any reason for being so.

  “Could we have the latter stage of that particular night, please, Watson,” said Holmes, who seemed so vacant in his tone that I began to wonder whether it was the details themselves that he wished for, or rather a distraction from the irritation of Inspector Abberline.

  “The murder of Miss Eddowes took place under the noses of no less than four serving or ex-policemen. Later that night at five minutes to three, Constable Alfred Long discovered a piece of a woman’s apron stained with blood upon the staircase entrance to numbers 108-119, Wentworth Mouldings, Goulston Street. The apron later proved to be that of Miss Eddowes, and written upon the wall above in white chalk were the words:

  ‘The Juwes are

  The men That

  Will not

  Be blamed

  For nothing.’

  “On the premise of preventing an anti-Semitic riot, these words were removed at the order of Sir Charles Warren, then Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. The evidence of the apron was left as a mocking token that not only had the Ripper claimed two victims in a single night, but he had also escaped the City boundary back into Whitechapel, undetected. The cryptic message upon the wall was believed to be deliberately misleading.”

  “And now, gentlemen, we should have ample time to hear what was previously the final and most grotesque chapter in this most heinous of tales,” said Holmes.

  “Friday the ninth of November, the body of Mary Jane Kelly was discovered in her lodgings at 3 Millers-Court. She was discovered by her landlord’s shop assistant, at a-quarter-to-eleven in the morning. She was five feet and seven inches tall: she had a fair complexion, blon
de hair and blue eyes. To those who are concerned by such matters, she was thought of as desirable. She was twenty-five years of age. There was no evidence of a struggle. Miss Kelly was found lying naked upon her bed. Her face had been butchered beyond recognition. Due to the extent of the lacerations, it was impossible to ascertain from which angle the throat had been cut. Her arms had been mutilated: her breasts removed. Beneath the head was the uterus, the kidneys and one breast, the other lay by her right foot. Situated between her feet was her liver. The intestines were placed upon the right side of her body: the spleen alongside the left. Upon the bedside table lay flaps removed from the abdomen and the thighs. A fire had been lit before the murder, and Kelly’s clothes had been burnt to provide the Ripper with sufficient light.”

  “Thank you, Watson,” said Holmes, turning his attention back inside the carriage. “Now gentlemen, to briefly summarise all that we have heard - there is nothing remarkable about any of these crimes.”

  “Holmes!” I shouted in unison with the two Inspectors.

  “Let me rephrase,” said he, ever dramatic, and seemingly rather pleased with our indignant response. “Other than the brutal nature in which these crimes were performed, they are by all accounts pointless slaughters with what would appear to be little motive; but it is the motive which we must focus upon. The victims have all been women of the night, but to mutilate them in such a fashion would suggest the Ripper is not primarily motivated by any perverted sense of moral cleansing; he is no demonic philanthropist. If this were so, then quantity would be key, not savage mutilation. The increasing ferocity of the crimes, accompanied with the evidence of his grotesque appetite not being satisfied upon the night of the double murder, is sufficient to support such a theory. I also do not believe these to be motivated in any way by any form of cult ritual. The only hypothesis we can follow is that he is motivated by terror and quenching his own perverse pleasure.”